The quiet flipping of a book above,

With the faint hum of the oven below.

Created a song that was sung,

Of a fragile interlude played before the climax.

One that is beautiful and quaint,

With the only light in the room being a small candle,

Resting on a homemade cake.

The book and the oven sing a song.

One that is sung before I do.

Darling, please know how much I’ve fought for you.